


Twist in the Line of Fire

by kuro49



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Role Reversal, charles is this world's magneto, erik owns a school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Role-reversal!AU. </p><p>Beyond the year 1962, the beach, and a fired shot: Charles takes Erik’s place in the world and everything is the same but not quite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the Present

**Author's Note:**

> I just need to post this to pressure myself into finishing. Also, I am sure there are already other (brilliantly written) role-reversal Erik/Charles fics out there, so don't put too much thought into this one, there are probably a lot of things that don't make sense. :)

**Part 1.**

_With ’62 behind you, you grow obsess and want to change the world, but this is only the Present. You know you can’t go far._

 

When he turns in his seat and stares out the window behind him, the children running across the green no longer comes as a shock.

Rather, it is almost a comfort at this point. But he has been unhappy all his life, this change, it is almost unreal on days like this where the ground isn’t made of mud and the sky isn’t pouring a sadness he won’t ever wash off. But when he smiles, it no longer looks forced. Just a small tilt at the corner of his lips before anyone important notices.

Only he loses all that comfort when he turns back to his desk and his eyes find the stacks of copies still waiting for the government’s pending approvals. There is also the sprawl of paperwork that awaits his own read-through.

He wants to sigh and throw it all into the fire that burns small and steady in the corner of the study, but settles with running a hand through his hair in frustration instead. He is pulling at the roots with no care for the consequences of the future, because this is all for one cause (a dream, my friend) where every mutant can live in peace and no one has to die.

There is already enough blood on his own two hands for this lifetime and beyond, he needs this to make things right.

Erik Lehnsherr stands from the chair, deciding a walk on the Westchester grounds will do him some good.

Fresh air, he thinks as he cracks his back and his spine gives a pop in the fading light.

000

His old chair is tucked into the corner to make room for the new one and his desk is no longer a sprawling mess of partly graded papers and his own half-assed thesis waiting for three more months of editing and rewrites.

Instead, his desk is covered with blueprints, top secret documents with almost all of their content blacked out, and grainy photographs of government officials involved in his mutant cause.

He hasn’t always been this way and his PhD in genetics isn’t just for shows but he has learned (from an old friend) that hoping for peace never gets anyone anywhere.

Still, some things never change and he continues to drink tea like it actually keeps him awake. Instead of coffee rings on clean white sheets, he has teabags piling in the garbage bin by his desk. But no matter how much he wants to fall back in bed, there are still always too much to do. An endless list that requires his attention, and he prefers it this way, that way he doesn’t have to think about anything else.

Not the fired missiles or the things that has changed since then.

He only tries to focus on the plans, and taking his bottom lip between his teeth, Charles Xavier submerses himself in the study of his Oxford apartment and doesn’t get out of the favourite armchair he has had moved from Westchester until late in the evening.

000

No one calls him Magneto.

Except Alex when he wants to provoke him into a mock-fight where their powers go blazing and the sweat that drips can finally compare to the fire that burns in their eyes. By then, there are usually actual flames licking at their ankles and light fixtures that are bent into a tangle above their heads.

Sean says the name is too threatening, makes you sound like some menacing old man bent out on destroying the world in highly unfashionable tights. You know, like in those old comic books, no? Alright, moving on then.

Hank just reminds them these names keep their real identity safe from the government because it goes unsaid that they still complete missions even with the existence of the school. Not only so, but there are still mutant-focused projects running across the United States that receives direct funding from the government.

And Emma Frost just doesn’t care for it.

 

He can count the students in the school with one hand and the number of people in the mansion with two. And for a start, Erik knows it isn’t much of one. No, it is not even close to what he has once had with Charles but it is more than a zero and no one has had to die for this slice of peace.

000

He hasn’t exactly been going for menacing when he first started out.

But by the time the public takes notice of their work, Professor X has more or less became _The Professor_. And even Raven has been surprised at how threatening it sounds when she poured over the newspaper reporting their ‘terrorist activities.’

Charles wants to argue but they all know he doesn’t care enough because a few mindwipes and Azazel’s teleportation, they are literally invisible if they have wanted but they only ever want to direct the right eyes to the wrong deeds. They need to make the biggest possible splash.

However, it has actually been Raven’s need to smear Xs following their missions that really makes their name known, and feared by a large percentage of the human race. She uses what is available, sometimes it is paint, other times it isn’t.

Mystique calls it a much needed custom for the X-Men, and this too has been her idea.

Angel snorts but does it anyway, enjoys the artistic flair it gives them. Azazel doesn’t mind, he helps out when he is required and leaves the rest to the girls. Riptide thinks it to be an unnecessary theatrics but it is overly effective and it isn’t his name being smothered into the walls.

So they follow his lead.

The Professor and his X-Men.

 

There have been other passing mutants but compatibility is huge for Charles and most mutant extremist can’t stand to know that he is a marshmallow behind the name The Professor has made out in the big bad world. Most of the time, new recruits don’t make the cut when they realize he prefers Charles and tea with a spike of whiskey when he is feeling adventurous or depressed, but they don’t know that.

 _How English_ , they think and he bids them a farewell in his mind.

000

He doesn’t talk about him as if he is dead. In fact, he doesn’t talk about him at all.

Sometimes the children will ask but mostly it is the parents who wonder.

“Mr. Lehnsherr, who is Xavier?” They look at the pamphlets, stare at the name and ask with scepticism in their eyes. And even without Emma Frost there acting as a teacher, Erik can tell they either think this is a scam or he is a pedophile. But he keeps himself in check and doesn’t bend their tool shed into an unrecognizable mess.

 “The school, _Xavier’s_ _School for Gifted Youngsters_ , is named after the family that used to live there.” And that’s as much of an explanation anyone will ever get out of him.

Sometimes Sean and Alex will share a look if they are present, rare but possible, still they won’t say a thing because they too have pretended, too many times, this school isn’t build on a dead dream of a non-existent man that went by the Xavier name. Only, they all know he has been real (and his dream was once true and genuine.)

Because he is still real, even today.

 

They don’t point out Erik’s mistakes (can they even call it that?) and they don’t try to change a thing, it isn’t their place. Not when the year nineteen sixty-two has changed them all.

000

He hasn’t mentioned him since the end of ’62.

Raven calls it bullshit but only because she is his sister and is allowed to say things like that. But give him a bit of a leeway and the name Erik will follow wistful smiles and days spent brooding in bed.

The new recruits all think it but most don’t actually voice their questions out loud.

And Charles pretends he doesn’t know a thing. Because what is he to say to: Professor, who is Erik and why do you sigh out his name like you are a teenager and still in love?

 _He is the man I betrayed. The same one I can never forget. The reason for everything I do._ He replies, but the words never really make it off of his articulating tongue.

No one else in the X-Men knows the extent of Erik is to Charles.

Everyone is kept in the dark, even Angel and Azazel and Riptide and they have decided they know enough because it isn’t hard to piece together broken shards for a bigger picture. But the job is hazardous, Charles knows, he has never came out of a memory unscathed.

There are usually bloody fingertips when you try to put pieces that don’t match together.

However, only Raven recognizes what he means to him and that is just because she has been there since the start. She wants to laugh and cry with him on days the chess set gets pulled out of its hiding place (at the back of his dresser, hidden beneath all the cardigans he doesn’t wear anymore.) She also wants to tear apart his dream of compromise because their goals have evolved so far, neither resembles the other any longer.

But she doesn’t say it out loud and he pretends his telepathy still applies to everyone but her.

000

There are reasons Erik doesn’t like children and the very first one is that they are not miniature adults.

They are special and require a different set of absolutely everything to deal with. Kids have ideals he has never been able to wrap his head around. Erik has tried to look to Emma Frost, as the only woman in the house and all, for any indication of a comforting figure but she only raises a perfect brow at him and turns back to her crystal nails.

He doesn’t know why he keeps her around.

Beast attempts to help but Erik quickly realizes that children is second to girls on a list of things Hank McCoy has a hard time understanding. And after the third test tube crashes to the floor of the lab, Erik grabs Scott off of Hank’s blue furry back and takes him to his equally destructive brother.

His best hope is Sean Cassidy but when he catches the teen wandering in from the grounds with his pupils blown wide and his shirt cuffs smelling of cigarette smoke, Erik tries not to think because it is hardly indication what Sean has been doing.

 

But his problems never really end, not when Ororo Monroe, the little orphan girl Emma has found, joins the school. And unfortunately (or is it fortunately? Alex is betting on little Ororo having a secret or not so secret death wish) she has taken a liking to him.

Erik narrows his eyes but the child with a head of shocking white keeps coming at him, tiny feet padding against the wooden floors.

“Mr. L,” Ororo starts, voice delicate and soft because _Lehnsherr_ has proven to be too difficult for her still even if she is almost seve and can call a storm over the house in her afternoon naps, “I can’t sleep…”

She doesn’t look ashamed, not the way he would be if he were ever to admit a similar weakness.

And he knows he should tell her she is always welcomed to stay in his room. But he is nearing thirty and having an eight years old child in your bed seems just a little creepy.

“C’mere.” He stands up and gestures at her to follow him to the kitchen where he will warm her a cup of milk and give it a splash of honey. Because that has been what his mother has once done for him, or so Charles once reminded him.

000

It is the feeling of simply knowing.

Both a security blanket and a whispered promise from a father long dead that nothing can go wrong. But no one ever tells the truth, because things always go bad.

That’s why Charles likes it back in Oxford where nothing has changed. The undergraduates are still drinking away their early evenings, downing bottles after bottles of alcohol that taste more like piss than anything really. And he would know, he has drank all that and more between the time he spent on his thesis and the times he spent fighting off alcohol poisoning in some girl’s bathroom.

The sidewalks in Oxford are still made of horrible cobblestones that hurt the bottom of his feet and he still has no need to look up at the sky to know that it’ll rain no matter how bright the sun is shinning right now. And he loves it.

Along side of almost-white sand beneath his feet, soft rolling waves and the hate in their heads, it is completely understandable when he says he loathes surprises now.

He rather be on his knees with the ground covered in glass.

_Charles?_ She is out in the living room and through her eyes, he can see her blue fingers clutching at several sheets of intelligence they have gathered before parting from the United States. _I know this isn’t a priority but something seems off._

Charles Xavier gets up off of his seat with a soft sigh that escapes his lips. _Comin’ Raven._

In the past, he will be staggering through the hallways drunk or tired to the bone. In the present, he has a mission burnt out in front of him, he can’t afford to play dumb, not when he does no one any good.

 

The papers speak of the war (from their childhood) and superindividuals who never made it back home.

“We need to know more about this, Raven, something isn’t right.”

Charles’ stomach turns.

000

In 1962, the world becomes painfully aware of a different kind of truth.

One that has the streets running high with paranoia, crowds buzzing with a nervous energy because it is as astonishing as it is frightening. How one subspecies of people, and that word is used loosely because there is nothing exactly for it as of now, can live among another for this long without being known, (and exposed to scrutiny and hate for the rest of their lives, Charles would like to add.)

It unfolds, quietly, before the dreaded boom comes to sound.

The Brotherhood doesn’t make a statement, not out loud at the world at any rate. They keep their eyes on the government and the X-Men but neither are they damage control.

To the world, as in the human population because mutants are still spread thin and scarce in cities all over the earth, there is no difference between the two of them.

The only distinction they make is that they are different.

And that only ever conjures fear to rise until a point where they raise their weapons to retaliate back. To them, the X-Men are capable of terrorist activities, of capturing government officials to make examples out of while the Brotherhood is a secret-organization they still don’t quite understand.

In one circumstance, they are breaking down abandoned buildings (no one sees the mutants they take back), in another, they have their powers pointing back at the X-Men, forcing them back the way they came.

And it is the unknown aspect of the Brotherhood that places them under watchful eyes, not hate, no not yet, not when they still have the X-Men around.

To the mutants, there are sides to choose but neither group is forcing a hand on them to pick, and so they quietly wait for the moment because it will come and when it does, their feelings won’t matter one bit.

And so it does.

 

The first time the Brotherhood clashes with the X-Men, they are all prepared. The government has their guns drawn but lowered if only to see the two biggest problems they have on their hands burn each other out.

But one can bend metal and the other is _the_ Professor X.

Their hopes aren’t high despite their want to just pull, pull, pull those triggers until everything is down on the ground.

000

“Give us three hours if we don’t contact you first, same location as the archives bureau you drop us at.”

The teleporter nods at him and he takes Raven’s hand in his.

“On a count of three, Azazel.”

 _One, two, three._ It happens in their heads just as their physical selves disappear in the wind.

 

He opens his eyes to grey concrete walls and white florescent lights above his head, it reminds him of his time with the CIA and the implications shut down before he can think of anything from before. He is glad, Erik is a distraction he doesn’t need in here.

The noise in his head is still the same, the subtle buzzing of the human mind. But.

_Something is wrong._

He glances at Raven but she is busy scanning the halls, looking like a guard twice her size.

___Raven?_

She doesn’t look at him.

_Raven?!_

Neither does she feels his urgency, she is still thinking about her cover and whether she has out done herself this time again.

“Raven!”

She snaps her head to look at him with narrowed eyes and gives a wild little gesture at her temple, like he is insane for speaking up with fear creeping along every nerve now that his only advantage is limited. He shakes his head, frantic at the rate she is walking over to him in wide strides.

“I can’t,” he hisses in her ear, “they’ve done something to the place, it’s sort of telepathy-proof.”

“Sort of?”

“It doesn’t let me extend too far, not the whole place anyway. I can still read their minds but I can’t affect them. I was speaking to you in your head but you didn’t hear a thing…” It’s not quite telepath-proof but it does affect his powers and oh, are the humans learning.

They both stand stunned before Raven finally breathes out, a soft “oh god, no” that doesn’t go well with the guard’s menacing scowl.

“Yeah, I can’t even get Azazel in here.”

“Shit. We have to leave.”

“No,” he shakes his head, mind turning in the face of her fear, “we’ve come too far…You’re my cover now, Mystique.”

He gives her an exasperated smile and she makes the best out of it.

000

Charles hates the stark contrast between black and white because he believes the world exists in shades of grey. There is right, and there is wrong, but there are also a whole spectrum of truth and circumstances that makes the difference.

So when he is shaking on his feet, it isn’t fear that has him gripped by the throat, it is a certain horror that sinks deep within the bone. 

 

It’s a little like hunting, he supposes, or fishing and also gathering on his part because the mind is a vast place and it doesn’t always make sense. A primal instinct. The first few officials he encounters don’t have enough clearance to go that deep into the archives. The next ones do but most of them are thinking of anything but work at the moment.

But none of them _know_.

He isn’t surprised, it is a sealed case from too many years back. He also has to know, he can’t just let it go as though he has never known.

The door opens and a hand passes a key card through the crack. He hears the _be careful_ she calls, out loud, in her head and takes the card, his hand squeezing hers before they both let go.

 

Charles waits, for the perfect moment, before he skims the mind of a trainee for the password and swipes the card through the lock. The light beeps a glaring green and he enters the archives. The boxes are placed neatly in rows on top of metal shelves, and he doesn’t imagine how easy it will be for Erik to bring this place down to the ground.

He shakes his head to rid the thoughts of him and starts, knowing the general direction from the intel he has gathered along the way.

 

His hands don’t tremble, they are only shaking in hate and misbelieve at the past.

Because mutants have always existed and Charles Xavier hasn’t been the first one to try to find them or use them in an attempt to protect his home.

 

World War II’s superindividuals are mutants.

Young mutants who have enlisted in the war, volunteered their powers for their country.

Instead, their government has taken that show of power as an act of defiance, a fear of the unknown before sending the small crew into the eye of the tornado.

On paper their goal is to drive out the Axis powers in the clutter of tiny countries affected, in truth, they are thrown into the crossfire with a promise to survive and we’ll take you all, as heroes, back home.

None of them do.

It is a one-sided massacre that goes out quietly in a foreign nation occupied by Nazi Germany.

( _It’s a win-win situation for America, the war is over and our problem is gone_.)

And when World War II ends, the case is sealed.

000

He feels angry, the kind that blinds everything in sight. And he hasn’t felt that since he has been inside Erik’s head. And at this moment, he thinks he can finally understand, every kill Erik has made on his way to Sebastian Shaw.

All justifiable in the twisted truth.

And it doesn’t matter that none of these men in the building has any idea what their government has done decades back into the past, it only matters that someone here once knew and it is still a secret now.

Somehow, he can’t stand for that. (Maybe, that day back in October of 1962, Erik gave him his mind set and it was only beginning to show now.)

He doesn’t have the power back then to save Erik, he isn’t about to ignore this now.

Three hours passes in a blur. And when Raven pulls him away from the archives, she knows there’ll be hell to pay for what Charles has seen. She can tell from the way he is looking at her, like she is the most precious thing in the world.

 

(It will be a mercy if you killed, Raven tells him many years later. Because you, Charles, you are not cruel or brave enough to send them on their way. They all end up screaming in their heads, wanting to die instead.

Yes, he replies with a thin smile worn through the years, having heard every echoing scream resonating back inside his head, it’ll take a miracle to unscramble their brains now.

And then Erik finds her.

 

He still can’t tell whether they have discovered a miracle or a disaster in the making.)

Azazel appears in a whirlwind of black and red on the exact tick of the clock.

“Bring Riptide back, I want this place destroyed.”

000

When the Brotherhood intervenes, it is not entirely too late, but the damage can be seen.

The south end of the building has been demolished, chunks of concrete ripped out from the ground. The trees in the surroundings are broken off, branches snapping in the sudden storm. And this is a declaration of war, if not anything else.

People don’t take well to destruction.

And Charles’ telepathy has nothing against guns.

Erik can’t see him get hurt one more time. Even if he is the one to hold him down, anger rising, disbelief burning in their eyes, there are just some things that must be done.

 

“What did you do?” Magneto looks at the slump in the breathing bodies, heart stunningly still in the face of one Charles Xavier.

“I did what you’d have done in my place.”

The ceiling is gone from above their heads, a white-washed sky looks down at them.

Blinking slowly, Charles hands over all the proof he wants but cannot destroy, the other is hesitant but by the flash of surprise shadowed over by anger that passes in his eyes, Charles feels satisfied, like this is confirmation for all that he has done, and it is the right thing, nothing can convince him of otherwise.

“…They didn’t know anything.”

Erik’s voice breaks but Magneto’s don’t, he only sounds betrayed. Again.

“Ignorance isn’t a justification,” Professor X says, hands red with fresh blood that isn’t his, “and now they know.”

But that is all just theoretical, Charles doesn’t kill.

 

He does much worse.

000

A dying man groans, wanting to die.

“There is a war coming at the rate you are going.”

Charles flinches at the steel in his voice, like he is stating a fact. And Erik prays he isn’t, but the truth is shining through. They can’t hide much longer.

“A war that I am going to win.” He doesn’t tell him not to worry but reassurance is never what they need. “We’ll be safe, Erik.” _I’ll keep you safe._

“Safety has no place in the world that you have in mind. This is all wrong, what you are doing, killing innocent men who knew nothing.”

“Don’t force my hand in this, my friend.”

Charles steps back, sky-eyes narrowing back at him.

“No one held a gun to your head.”

And it is only courtesy, a reminder of what they once had, that Erik doesn’t hold him in place with the metal strewn in the ruins around them. Charles shakes his head, proves him wrong, and says.

“They did much worst than that.”

And Erik chases him out into open where the dying can finally die in peace.

000

He tells himself that you don’t wake up one day with the ability to hurt the ones you love. So the fighting will always be a little different when it comes to the X-Men, or really just Charles and Raven. (Because they made a difference in the past, they meant something besides danger and a primal need to get away.)

“Raven.”

She levels out her gaze and manages to look indifferent. She can tell, he is impressed. And Magneto is probably still much more powerful than her but she has growth on her side, Azazel’s training hasn’t been for nothing, she hopes.

Her voice hardens and she is proud when she manages to pull that soft and quiet _pleasecomebacktohim_ from falling off the tip of her tongue.

“It’s Mystique, only Charles gets to call me that.”

“… Fair enough.”

He doesn’t smile but she knows, it’s close. This also doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to thank him, because she does.

“… I’m glad for that night, helped me out, a lot. But.” She looks up at him, looks at the lack of change from the night he has given her the reassurance she needs to carry through until now, standing before him, blue and eyes a liquid gold. “Charles is my brother and I’ll stand by him.”

“Understandably. So it comes.” Erik beckons a metal beam to his hands. “I’m against killing those weaker than me, not hurting those that wants to hurt me in return.”

Raven smiles as Mystique cracks her knuckles, blue fingers flexing.

“I’m not entirely helpless either.”

And then she launches herself at him.

000

He doesn’t know how it comes to this but they are still fighting one on one, like this has been something fair from the start. And it isn’t, hasn’t been since the day they have been born with the X-gene in their DNA.

“Such a shame, isn’t it?”

She continues to smile but the diamond shell is already glinting and no matter what she says, Charles can’t do a thing in return, at least not in the way he wants to. And he wants her on her knees and begging for the pain to stop inside her head.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

He stares at her but her smile only ever widens, eyes bright.

“That you aren’t the telepath by his side.”

For a moment, everyone but Emma Frost and Magneto fall to their knees, hands clutching at the sharp pain piercing through their heads.

Even the hidden human soldiers at the far end of the battle are pulled in, agony twisting up their features. Their guns drop and their fingernails aren’t clawing into their skulls deep enough. Not enough to get him out of their heads at the very least.

“Charles!” Raven screams, eyes scrunching up as she tries to pull up her defenses, the ones Charles has personally taught her. _We don’t hurt our own kind like this!_

Charles swallows and blinks slowly, her sister’s horror echoing inside of his mind. A distinct blend of a hard-stricken fear and battling wills that are losing by a landslide against his own. He sucks in a breath and their movement stutter as they lay panting at the ground.

It isn’t until they can finally pick themselves up to stand on two feet does he turn back to the other telepath. “You are wretched.”

She smiles like it’s a compliment and perhaps, to her, there is no difference.

000

Pointedly, Charles doesn’t look to find Erik when he turns to go.

Because admittedly, he is a coward and isn’t ready for the disappointment, anger, and hate staring back at him. But maybe, Erik has given up on him for everything he has already done and this is just that maraschino cherry to top off the list. Maybe, he doesn’t even care.

His heart seems to restrict in his chest but he swallows the lump in his throat.

 

“We have what we came here for.”

He doesn’t look at Raven or the hurt that is still ringing loudly in her head, that angry _howcouldyouIthought_ —

“I think it’s time we go now.”

XXX Kuro


	2. the Past

**Part 2.**

_With the end of '62 on the horizon, there is nothing you can't face, but this is just the Past. It's about time you learn to let go._

 

It starts the same way he always imagines it to. And it starts with a blue sky and a beach at his feet. This doesn't change; no matter how many version of the same dream he has in the dead of night. The picture perfect blue and yellow always fall away into the background to give ways to their uniforms on foreign land, black boots sinking into the sand.

And Charles wants to tell Erik not to blame himself but the alternate only seems crude and cruel because they are both at fault when they finally stop to think without missiles and bullets aiming for their heads.

The submarine has fallen, the coin has found its way through Sebastian Shaw's head, and while Charles imagines it to hurt so much more, it has barely even grazed his threshold (he really should be worried, but somehow it didn't seem like the right time to mention that no one should be _that_ powerful.)

Erik doesn't look back at Shaw's body, lying limp against the sand. Even though he has anticipated this moment all his life, the relief is short lived, a tiny black spark that finally burns out in his chest. All that is left is to leave it all behind but Erik has always known he doesn't deserve anything less than misery for the rest of his life.

Because by then. The humans fire upon them.

 

A multitude of deafening booms later, he has the missiles spinning in the sky above their heads. There are no clouds against the blue and the world holds still, sucks in a breath and forgets to exhale.

This is about control, and they think he has lost his.

 

"Charles."

Erik starts but the other has already walked up to the edge of the water, fingers positioned at his temple as the soft rolling waves laps at the soles of his boots. Erik doesn't realize the damage but in reflection, this is the moment he loses Charles.

Because when Charles connects his mind with all those men on the ships, their hate becomes his own, an intricate pattern of thoughts that wounds its way into his head. Their stream of diediediedie _die_ becomes his. And so when he turns to Erik, he asks, decision in the making but with real confusion behind his question.

"If they can afford to fire at us, why don't we give them back?"

"…Charles?"

"Feel free to fire it back at them."

The conviction is real. If they want us dead, we'll wipe them out first is what he means. Because Charles makes a choice and he refuses to allow this beach to become a mutant mass grave.

Not for Erik or himself. Not when this is child's play with the powers they are born with.

This is about control and he still has his.

000

He draws lines and builds walls to keep it all from stacking up high in his mind. He doesn't really want to know because he knows, one look is all it takes, all it ever took.

And this is the one.

Everything falls from their precarious place.

He shutters his eyes close as their hate hits him, it doesn't knock the breath from his chest or makes his blood run cold with realization. Their hate only brings an overwhelming need to give up because this isn't ever going to change, why can't he see this before?

Breathing out, Charles turns his back to the ships.

"Erik, go ahead."

He can convince them until they believe it as their only truth but that isn't really them, not the version Charles has come face to face with and he can't stand for that, not anymore. He isn't going to conceal their mistakes and hide their hate from the world. No, not when he knows it to be the truth, deep down, underneath all his pointless cover up.

Charles smiles and that is Erik's second indication.

"You want me to—"

"Yes, Erik. I want them to see exactly what we are capable of."

"…And what," he swallows, "are we capable of, Charles?"

"Mass annihilation."

Charles has thought Erik will be glad to hear those words fall from his lips but he only looks forlorn, like this is something out of his worst nightmares. (Charles realizes, much later, that this is the first crack he makes in Erik but by then he has already been hacking away at him for years.) And something dies in his eyes, Charles thinks that might be hope. But he can't do this anymore, not when he finally _understands_ him. It isn't fair, it isn't right, Charles thinks hard at Erik.

But it doesn't get through.

"…I'm not going to be another Shaw." And still, he refuses to turn to look at his tormentor's cold dead eyes even when the helmet remains unmoving on his head.

 

So when Erik's back hits the sand, Charles' fist bury at his collar, his eyes hold only one question. And it isn't fair but this is just it.

_Why did it have to be you?_

000

His hands grapple at the helmet.

"Charles! What are you—?!"

_Stay back, Raven, I don't want to hurt you or the boys._

Perhaps it is not the eerie calm in their heads that is keeping them at bay because Charles is already out of their minds, sole focus on the man beneath him, perhaps it is the realization that this is only between Erik and Charles. So they hang in the back with a desperate want to help but a need to see this play through the right way.

Blunt nails skimp across the edge of the metal in their struggle. He can feel his heat beneath the press of his body and the sand, and they are a tangle of limbs as Erik comes to the full realization of what he is trying to do.

Charles can't feel Erik's fear but he can see it in his eyes.

His lost control. His broken hope. His need to make him do things his way.

It all cascades to a place neither can reach.

And all that is left is an endless horror because the betrayal is a knife that twists as it goes in. Digging deeper, taking root, but never making it out the other side.

The missiles explode in the sky. The debris falls into the sea. But neither takes notice, not when Charles' wrists are pinned to the ground. Legs weigh down by Erik's frame resting above his body. And when he speaks, Charles is speaking over the hand that lay pressure over his throat in warning.

"They wanted us dead, my friend."

It is raspy and hoarse like he has been screaming that in his head for all his life. It is also the last thing Erik hears before a gunshot rings out across the beach.

000

Metal ignites into a projectile with a simple pull of the trigger, and it takes all of two seconds before Moira screams.

Her gun dropping to the sand in a silent clatter no one hears.

The bullet she fires is imbedded in the tree just behind the two of them. Erik can feel the metal surrounded by the wood but he can only see the CIA agent with her hands clutching at her head, tears already streaming down her face as she gives a soft whimper of pain, a feeling Erik has been accustomed with for most of his youth.

She falls to her knees.

"What did you do, Charles?"

He tightens his hold on his friend's throat and it is only then that Moira can breathe a little easier. When the sudden onslaught of pain finally subsides to something more manageable, she is gulping at the air, eyes glazing over in fear, brain turning at the seconds of immense horror that seems to last forever.

Erik lets go, almost as though he has only just realized what they have both done. He gets up and off of Charles just as the other sits up in the sand.

The beach is silent through it all.

"She is just like them." Charles gestures at the ships, still sitting out at the calm sea. And it is with a solemn pause that he stands to look Erik in the eyes. "Can't you see, Erik? She is just like the men that pulled you from your family, the soldiers who held your mother down when Shaw fired that gun!"

Erik's blood drains at that.

But he supposes he should have realized this the moment his back hits the sand and Charles' scramble for his helmet only tells him the one thing that can replace the nightmares from the camps.

_He is willing to mind control him._

"…That is low, Charles, even for you."

And he is accustomed to him to saying all the wrong things at just every precise moment.

"I thought you'd be glad." Charles smiles bitterly. "I understand now, isn't that what you wanted me to see all this time?"

"I'm sorry, Charles." He doesn't take off the helmet as ridiculous as it looks. It is his last defence against a world of unknown because that man standing along side of him is not the Charles who has pulled him up and out from the water. He isn't even the man who has tried to talk logic and peace into a broken weapon during those games of chess. "This is far from it."

Far from the life he has shown him. Far from the horrors he now needs to relearn because Charles' next words reminds Erik just how far apart they have always been.

"What shame then."

000

"I'm sorry, Moira."

He kneels down to the CIA agent and presses his forehead to hers. She flinches, because she recognizes who he is and exactly what he has done, and he isn't gentle in return but it is passable with Erik standing behind him. His fingers push into his temple and with a hard press will, her eyes shudder close and she slumps against him in defeat.

"This is goodbye." He murmurs in her ear.

When Charles stands up, he allows her to fall to the ground with a grace he can no longer bear to look at. Not with the loop of _diediediefreaksdie_ still playing in his head. He looks up at Erik and asks, "happy now?"

The curt nod is more than he expects and the small flutter of a smile comes over his lips despite the deeds they can no longer undo.

"Someone will come for her, I'm sure, but she no longer knows anymore about us than the men out there. We won't have any trouble, at least not from Moira."

He still says her name like she is a friend but everything has changed. He has seen their hate and knows that nothing will change, not at the rate he once foolishly think it could.

 

"Isn't this the lesson you wanted little naïve Charles to learn?" Charles wants to scream at Erik until his voice goes out. But he has lost the energy to be angry, not at Erik anyhow. Not when he is looking at him like that, voice soft and sad like he would have given up anything to change the situation.

"I never wanted you to learn anything, Charles, not from me at least."

"You wouldn't understand," Charles smiles as he turns his gaze to the side, "what I saw in their heads meant something."

000

Days and months and years later, Erik and Charles will probably feel the same way. Even when they have just tried to kill the other across a battlefield, they can probably still speak to each other like there has always been a truce between them.

And this, sitting across each other with tea being offered in between, is perfectly normal.

"How aren't you still angry?" Charles stares openly at him, fingertips caressing at the decades old china teacup he has in his hand. "You've experienced what they are capable of, _first hand_ , Erik."

_I know, I've seen what they did to you._

But Erik doesn't let the ink haunt him in ways he once allowed it. He faces Charles, hard eyes softening until his lips resemble a grimace of a smile. "You've taught me otherwise."

The irony hits and twists but Charles can only force a small smile in return.

"Then I suppose we've done a good job on each other then."

They are only missing the tears now.

"Too good of a job, Charles." The laugh is dry and sad. _Peace is an option, you taught me that yourself._

And it is as close to a confession as they allow it. Because when Charles doesn't pry, Erik doesn't wear the helmet. And when Erik's mind decides to unlock the gates to his head and drags the thought to the forefront of his mind Charles doesn't have the heart to convince Erik to his side, fingers pushing against his temple.

No one gets to face honesty with nothing less than trust.

"I won't." And it means many things. He won't stop. He won't give up. He will fight for what he thinks is right, even when it can be wrong but that is a risk he is willing to take because he is sure, and kill the men that wants them dead.

"I know."

"Thank you, my friend."

000

Charles looks like he wants to say something more but with a wistful shake of his head, they both know it to be over. They step apart and it all comes naturally now.

Erik doesn't offer his hand at his fellow mutants and no one makes a speech. Hank and Alex and Sean go to him. They drag their feet and smile weakly when they look back, and by then it is decided and Charles no longer wants to fight this.

"Azazel, please."

He is looking at the boys with Erik leaning into the red-skinned mutant before they are all turning back to stare at them, sadness burning in the rim of their eyes.

They don't say goodbye. That only ever makes things worst.

He feels Raven's hand tighten around his and then they are gone.

 

When the teleporter returns, Charles doesn't read his mind.

Doesn't pick out the location where he has left Erik to fend for himself. It is the least he can do, he respects the other man too much to do otherwise. (No matter how much he wanted to know, but that was a given, wasn't that? Erik should know. Had to know how deep those feelings ran for him, otherwise he wouldn't have left. Right?)

"Westchester will do."

Azazel clasps a hand on his shoulder and Raven takes his hand once more, the others gather and with an easy disappearance trick, they are gone. Black and red smoke curling in their absence, trailing a scent of sulfur in the air.

The beach is empty, save for one.

000

Too soon, she senses them coming.

"Hello there, what a crowd this is."

When the walls crumble beneath one man's control, Emma Frost sits up and greets the mutants at her door.

"Things have been interesting while I was here… I take it Sebastian is dead?" She smiles a smile that reaches her eyes but there is no warmth, not the same kind he is used to at the very least. "So, what is this supposed to be?" She raises a perfect eyebrow and glances at the helmet in his hands. "An act of faith?"

"An act of courtesy." He corrects.

And her smile is nothing beautiful. But her eyes widen at the hint of apology the man is offering because Russia rushes to the forefront of his mind even when she knows he isn't sorry for breaking her diamond shell. "Erik, right?"

"It doesn't matter." He is sorry for giving her over to the human government.

She wants to laugh at the absurd ways they have come to but the path only splits so far before you must make the one decision that will change your life. And the man before her eyes has made his.

"Erik, sugar, no wonder that boy likes you so much."

Her smile widens into something wild at his frown, like she can't wait to see where this will go. Emma shrugs and explains the question he hasn't learned to voice.

"Us, telepaths don't work well together."

She glances to the boys standing at the door like guards, picks up on their frantic nerves just as the blond one quirks his head back to speak. "Better go, Magneto. I know this is a rescue mission and all but the CIA won't take it to be an act of kindness."

She takes a step closer to the man with the helmet tuck beneath his arms because his offer is just as subtle as her acceptance.

"Well, it's only fair if you get a telelpath's help then."

000

They land in the foyer and everything is just as they have left it.

He looks at Raven and there isn't even a telepathic nudge, she tightens her grip on his hand before letting go completely. And it is the sacrifices you make that are all coming back when you least expect it.

"Locked doors mean don't try to get in, opened doors mean someone is," Raven says before correcting herself with a small shake of her head, eyes impossibly sad, "was living in it, and closed doors mean go ahead, let's just hope that it's actually a bedroom."

The three other mutants follow her as she takes them down the hall. And it isn't because they don't care, Raven looks back, sometimes being alone is the only way to keep you from ruining the things you can never have, now that you care.

 

It isn't until Charles walks into his own bedroom, in a stumble he can't remember how, that he realizes he is still wearing that blue and yellow uniform. And suddenly he can't get out of it any faster.

Because by the time he has come to his senses, the uniform is in a heap on the ground across the room and he himself is standing in front of his mirror in only his underwear.

If he is in any other situation, he will laugh at how ridiculous he is but the laughter would be in good humor, not hysterical ones that leaves him drained and heaving, eyes rimmed with red of tears he wants but cannot shed.

Sometimes things get out of hand. And no matter how desperate you are to change it, things just don't go where you want it to.

(You don't get to stay with the one you want.)

He crawls into bed.

 

But this is only the start of a years long free fall, there is still much to go.

000

They are pulling at scraps and it isn't living but it is surviving. And Erik has always been about that.

They are in one of his safe houses, near the borders of Mexico. There is one bedroom, a ratty couch and a bathroom. The seclusion is what Hank needs and the isolation gives them anonymity. But there are still bitter emotions running high in the house.

Mostly, it is Erik and Emma Frost but the boys have learned how to sidestep the both of them. It is almost like an art.

Because sometimes Erik will look at Emma Frost like he wants her to read his mind and give him what he wants. But then she will finally look back at him and he knows she won't ever be what he really wants.

"Don't condemn me." She tells him, fourth day after she joins the Brotherhood.

"I'm not." He doesn't look at her when he replies because he still expects Sebastian Shaw to be standing right next to her, arm wrapping around her waist as he tugs her close.

He doesn't see her narrowing her eyes at him but he does hear the click of her heels before she walks out of the room and the _I'm never going to be him_ she leaves lingering in his head in spite.

Erik really needs to remember to wear the helmet ( _bucket_ , she thinks at him) more often.

 

The next day, she gives him all of Shaw's accounts, properties and contacts she has ever known of. It isn't an apology or a peace offering for digging up days-old scars that are not even trying to heal but she is a part of the Brotherhood, she calls this contributing.

"This is dirty money."

"Dirty money is still money, you can't afford to do anything otherwise." Pointedly, she doesn't look around at the house, or the gather of dust and dirt on the windows.

"This is all Shaw's."

"Yes, and a dead man has no use for it." She still doesn't look at the chipped counters, or Magneto's dead eyes looking up from the papers she gives him.

 

Erik doesn't have a plan, he only knows he has to get away from that beach. He doesn't understand why the boys follow him but they are still here and they are probably not leaving any time soon. He sees them glancing up at him and the smiles, as thin as they may be, makes the decision for him.

 

In the end, he gives in. He withdraws all the money and sells all the properties like he can't have it any longer than he has to.

The money goes through a strict system, gets passed through foreign accounts and exchanges of too many hands both underneath the tables and on top until they are as clean as they will ever be. (At least now Erik can hold it in his hands and not have it reek of Shaw's dirty blood-drenched ways.)

 

Almost two months later, Erik comes up to her.

It isn't a thank you but it is the closest he has ever gotten to one with anyone else other than Charles.

"The numbers aren't in the red anymore, Emma."

"You're welcome, Erik." Somehow she manages to appear to be looking down at him even when she is shorter, perhaps it is the tone of her voice. "But really, it was either Sebastian or Xavier, and I do prefer Sebastian over any other telepath."

"You can't even read my mind, why does it matter to you?"

"Sebastian makes you efficient in your chase, Xavier slows you down with his doe-eyes."

Erik purses his lips in protest and dignifies himself by not throwing the metal window frames at her head like he wants to. Emma stays, smirking at the gaping opened door of the one bedroom she has claimed in the house.

 

Years later, Erik will care enough to ask what Shaw has meant to Emma. And days later, she will tell him, he loved her once, in a time when the world hasn't secured a place in his heart.

"Did you mourn?"

"That's what a wife would do, I wasn't one."

Erik doesn't ask whether she ever hated him for what he has done, he doesn't even ask whether she loved Shaw back in the first place.

000

The Westchester Mansion has never been welcoming.

It is cold and desolate, a castle in its right, but his childhood home nonetheless. And no amount of nightmare from his past can change that fact. But coming back now makes him feel like he is sinking into quicksand and the world will be better off destroyed.

Because it is now the first of December, and October has come and gone.

"Don't be so melodramatic."

Charles rolls to lie flat on his back before glancing up at the intruder with the yellow eyes squinting down at him. "Raven?"

"You were broadcasting."

She sits down at the edge of the bed before she really looks at him, takes in the solemn stare in his eyes. Looking like the child he has never got the chance to be because he hasn't broadcasted a thought, not since before Kurt came into their life.

She doesn't ask because it is inevitable that he will share, with or without the falling tears. She is only hoping it will be without, she has enough of her own, there are rarely enough tissues to go around.

"He took off the helmet for her."

Charles says before he is biting at his bottom lip in frustration. Raven draws him into her arms with a roll of her eyes.

"Her?"

"Frost."

He mutters with memories of Erik's metal coiling around her diamond neck, twisting and tightening until she shatters. It isn't until now that he can see his own naïve ways, his forgive and forget because they all change, Erik, some way or another.

"Still not good enough of a reason for you to sulk in bed for this long." She pulls back, holds him at arms distance and brushes off his offered images of the other telepath, perfect even when she breaks under Erik's ways.

"…Sorry."

Or perhaps, that is the most beautiful she has ever been, that moment in Russia.

"No, you're not." She gives him another look, one that warns him that he has to give it up before this becomes a real problem for them. Raven reaches out, brushes his bangs from his eyes and smiles. "It is not the end of the world."

"…close enough." He nearly sniffs as he buries his head back into the pillows once again.

 

It takes very little after that.

 

"Let's go home, Raven. Let's go back home to Oxford."

000

The Mansion in Westchester County remains empty for exactly three months and four days after Charles returns to his Oxford apartment in England. And on the fifth day of the fourth month, Erik Lehnsherr opens the gates to 1407 Graymalkin Lane and walks through, like he owns it.

 

Three days earlier.

 _Let me speak with Erik_ , a voice echoes in all of their heads. A firm warmth that has grown stifling, a familiarity that has gone cold.

Hank doesn't ask why, Alex doesn't say anything and Sean just looks uncomfortable. Only Emma smirks and shrugs her shoulders, easily because she knows just the kind of desperation that lies beneath that one simple request.

"I don't think that is a good idea, Professor."

Hanks says out loud and watches as Erik turns sharply at him, eyes narrowing, fingers clenching in the arms of the chair he is sitting in.

"Hank?" His voice is low and Beast strains to hear him, almost.

"The Professor." Hank taps his head with a clawed finger. "He wants to talk to you."

"…Charles." He reaches up and it isn't until his fingertips touch the edge of the helmet that he freezes, eyes hard and unyielding. Hank watches, sees the one thing he has always seen. He sees the hurt and pain and longing that makes his shoulders ache.

He smiles at Erik (there is pity because they all know Erik gave away the most on that beach and a silent _go ahead, no one will blame you for anything. This is not a betrayal._ ) Hank turns and ushers the other two inside Emma Frost's room despite her protests, leaving Erik alone with his choice.

 

Needless to say, he takes it off.

 

_Erik!_

The first thought, the first sound, the first word he feels with his mind brings him back to a dark night beneath the sea where the waves crash above their heads and he has been ready to die. But his feet touch the ground and they are still steady and not weak at the knees. The sentiments shouldn't be the same. Erik doesn't choke, he easily breathes out.

"Yes?"

_I want to speak with you._

"Don't we have nothing left to say?" _Wasn't the beach enough?_

_I—_

"Or are you here to apologize?" Even when neither knows whether he is really the right one, not just yet, not when neither has made a move against the human race. But this is still a vicious cycle they have made for themselves.

_I'm not at fault, not that at least, I won't apologize for what I believe in._

"Then Hank is right, this is probably not a good idea."

_Erik! Hear me out. Please._

Erik stays silent and doesn't put the helmet back on, even though his fingers does clench harder into the smooth metal. And he knows Charles feels all of the turmoil coiling in his mind, he is privy to all of it.

Erik is also the only other person to hear the sharp inhale of breath before Charles' first and only ever offer of peace.

_I want you to have the Westchester Mansion._

XXX Kuro


	3. the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware that nothing groundbreaking ever happens in my fics, but thank you for reading up to here in the first place! :)

**Part 3.**

_With '62 in the past, you are now older and wiser, but this is finally the Future. And everything is still the same but not quite._

 

He is old but not really, his hair isn't completely white, just streaking with a few strands of grey here and there, starting from the roots.

And seeing him again is not as different as he thought it would be. But he hasn't been thinking about him for years, he says just as easily as the world calls him on his bullshit. Erik deliberately looks away.

"Miss Frost."

He says and she knows he is asking for a favor by the way he won't look at her, a long due one she supposes and this has nothing to do with her telepathy, it has become a habit to read Erik this way. And he is Erik, only Magneto when she is royally pissed off at his antics that reminds her of Russia.

"The little girl?"

"Yes."

In return, he no longer looks surprised when she knows exactly what he needs. He also doesn't wear the helmet much anymore, not since she has confronted him of how much it reminds her of Shaw in the last few moments she sees him alive, especially not since she has taught him how to shield, after all brain waves are only magnetic waves too.

"Hardly difficult, boss." She smirks. _I would be surprised if he doesn't jump at the chance._

Erik keeps his mind carefully blank and pretends he can't hear her speaking at him. But the world bears its weight down on him, and really, it isn't as easy as he once imagine it to be.

 

"I am surprised, Erik."

His bright eyes have been filed away by the storms that have passed between them, they finally resemble something more grounded even when it is the same shade of blue since forever.

"Are you?" Erik raises a brow and without the helmet Charles can finally see the minute shifts he is no longer used to reading.

"Just a little." He smiles and adjusts the cuff of his cardigan, ones he has bought since he has met Erik. And there have been many cardigans to count their time apart. Raven tells him he is pathetic, Charles retorts he is just sentimental that way.

(No one is fooled.)

"Good." Erik returns the smile and instead of the casual pleasantries they are trying so hard to forge, it is feeling too fond but that may also be Charles' (hopes and dreams and) imagination that Erik's eyes are warmer when he looks at him.

Erik parks the car in the picture perfect suburban neighbourhood neither of them has had the chance to live in. He turns off the engine and it is silent. Charles stills in his seat and speaks, soft and almost careful.

"Upstairs. She knows we are here."

"Even better." Erik flashes him a predatory smile as he gets out of the car, leaving Charles stunned for a second before he follows Erik's lead with barely a hint of hesitation, like this is a battle and he is his pawn.

The lawn is a jade green and the flowers are perfectly arranged in splashes of red and marigold. There are stone steps leading up to the front door and when they ring the bell, the wind chimes dangling on the front porch clinks like glass. They stand straight, shoulders nearly brushing in the afternoon breeze, and then the door pulls open.

"Mr. And Mrs. Grey?"

Erik smiles and Charles can tell the world might just end because this is either Erik's attempt at getting back his own little girl or Erik is actually trying his best to bring a dream (that didn't even belong to him at the start) into a reality of some sort.

Charles blinks back tears and braves on.

(Ignoring all the plans he has for little Jean Grey for now.)

000

Emma Frost, the beautiful woman the world has come to know as the White Queen, has gone her own way almost a decade back. She doesn't owe anyone anymore and departs to take back all the favours she has collected over the years. She has been wearing white still, the day she tells Magneto, that it is time she goes. Smirk dwindling into a worn smile, faint crinkles at the corner of her eyes.

"Do try to keep the school intact." She says to him as she turns to go, and for all the years she has stayed by his side, Erik realizes she has never been a malicious woman. She has only ever fallen in love with all the wrong men.

"And oh," she tosses her head back at the door, smile full of sorrow and worn through hope, "don't let that telepath wear you down."

He lets her go without a protest, he is sure he'll see her around again.

000

It happens somewhere in between, in a time and place neither of them has tried to remember.

Because as far as secrets go, everybody knows but nobody says a thing.

"Frost." He stands at her door waiting before she turns to look up at him from her work, and there is always more and more paperwork, endless convincing for the world to stay at bay. This is not the first time but it will be the last. "I want to speak with Charles."

"You two don't want to talk. You want to—"

"Emma."

She drops her pen to the surface of her desk as he takes another step inside, door swinging close behind him.

"…You know that it's a bad idea."

She won't ever be his mother, she doesn't care for him enough, but she is enough of a friend to know when he needs that one thing he has been wanting all his life.

And it is on a silent truce that Cerebro has never been rebuilt again (since Shaw and his then army torn it apart) because Charles doesn't get an upper hand in this and Erik isn't allowed to take advantage of it.

"Yeah," he runs a hand through his hair, "I do."

000

Beast goes back to the government, takes human-mutant relations even further than Erik has ever imagine it to go. But maybe he still has his prejudice and pain to hold him back, Hank doesn't. He is becoming an icon, standing out before a blur of human faces, proud and blue. He may not have seen his own pale flesh for a very long time but there has been something very human, maybe it is his heart.

On his off days, when the meetings don't go over into his dinner, Hank always come back to the mansion. The children recognizes him from the television and they all fall asleep on the sofa in the living room, hands still curled around his blue fur.

Some things never change, children are still not his forte, but he is happy and he hasn't looked for a solution to reverse his situation for a very long time.

000

There are no meeting places arranged for their rendezvous.

There is only compromise and a dash of mutant powers along the way.

Erik leaves the helmet behind, and Charles keeps a distinct amount of change in his pocket. He guides him through the streets with a gentle tugging of the coins in his pants and he'll guide him through each left or right turn at every intersection with a sixth sense that he's created just for him.

It's a trust they are willing to forfeit for a chance, several chances throughout the years.

When he pulls the door open for him, they won't look at each other in awe even when he's been inside the darkest corner of his head and made it out with no burns and bruises to show. And while that goes both ways, it has passed a long time ago, they try to forget or at least not to mourn over it ever again.

Their hands are busy, pushing and pulling until their backs are up against the wall or the backboard of the bed if they are docile and calm that day.

But it will always be frantic, like one moment too slow and he is walking out the door without another glance back behind him.

They try to talk, through the feverish biting kisses that hurt more than they soothe those ragged souls within them. And it works, enough times to keep them from bringing the world down around them. Enough times to make them do it all over again.

"D—don't go, Erik, I love you. I love you so much."

Charles pants a mantra, a broken record they both still listen into as he dips his head lower to suck a bruise over where Erik's heart should be.

His reply comes, a quiet gasp as Charles pulls his mouth from Erik's skin, red and dark, and slick with spit.

"I love you too."

They don't play games and he doesn't tease him like the good old days when chess actually meant chess and a kiss on the lips doesn't mean goodbye.

"Lie back."

The back of his knees hit the end of the bed at Charles' command, his eyes follows the curve of Charles' fingers as he drops his shirt over Erik's on the floor. His compliance comes easy and he is pliant in his hands.

"Alright."

His back hits the sheets and they smell nothing like them, but it'll change.

Oh, it always does.

His eyes are dark and his hands are hot. There is nothing in the world they won't do for the other, so it has no meaning when one swallows the other's words.

"Make me yours."

000

Havok is dead, has been for many years now. No one talks about what happens, no one makes up stories, and most attends the funeral with no real knowledge. Erik calls it sabotage, Hank calls it an accident, neither argues with the other, and they all leave it at that. The service happens at the school and his coffin goes into the grounds of the Westchester without his signature boom.

That is also the last time anyone has seen Scott Summers cry. Or maybe, that is just the rain. It has been raining the day they lower his coffin into the soil.

Charles has been there too. (He brought flowers.)

000

There is a knock on the door, the door of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, like the place is actually locked. The children don't know, and the ones that do don't want to know.

Emma gives him a strange smile and he knows what to expect when he opens that door, after all he does already have his helmet on.

 

"What's it going to be today, Charles?"

He is in a dark grey suit, not those old frumpy grandpa cardigans he can still get cocky over, and his smile is easy when he looks up to greet him. "Hello Erik, I'm here as a friend."

Erik hears the _today_ that should always follow Charles' words. And he isn't up for his games today, hasn't been ready to charge with his pawns thrown to the side for a very long time. Erik is weary and tired, he doesn't want to give out anymore second chances.

"You haven't been a friend for a very long time."

Charles' smile falls short of sad and no one is reminiscing, it's much too late. "I know, I'm sor—"

"Mr. Charles!"

They both snap to attention at the scream before Jean's sharp elbows connect with Erik's thigh, knocking him back a few steps as she throws her arms around Charles' waist. She nuzzles his stomach, leaving crinkles in his fine suit, as he has the wind knocked out of him.

Erik is rubbing at his sore leg, Charles can see that he isn't happy but he isn't exactly angry either. So he wraps his arms around little Jean Grey in return.

"Hey there, Jean."

She looks up at him the same time she loosens her grip on him. And there is a moment of serene silence before her mind is attacking his with sounds and feelings and images he hasn't expect to receive.

It doesn't hurt, it feels more everything is happening all at once, like being dropped inside a spinning kaleidoscope with no way out. He sees the painting she has done last week, he hears Emma's almost mechanical drawl whispering in his head, teaching with something that almost resembles patience, and then something warm touches his hand.

Charles chokes out a breath of laugher before he registers the lack of deadweight in his arms.

Looking down, there is no little girl with flaming red hair holding onto him just as tightly as he is to her. There is only Erik's hand gripping his own. He doesn't know which he wants more.

"Charles," he blinks at the sound of his name falling from his lips, "you alright?"

He sees Erik's quiet concern and the hand he has on Jean's shoulder, holding her back from letting loose.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Charles." She murmurs at Erik's side, almost sheepishly but they both know there isn't a hint of regret running through her head.

"That's quite alright, no harm done." He ignores Erik's pointed look and pats her head. But he knows he doesn't get off that easily because she is grabbing on to two fingers, dragging him along on a conquest no one else wants to follow. "I'm just glad you're that excited to see me."

Jean's laughter leads the way, and when he turns back, Erik is still standing there, looking back at him. There is a smile, not quite, but they're getting there.

Back to the start, back when everything has once been fine.

000

Banshee still comes around the school once in a while, popping in when Erik is at his busiest. He talks like he has forgotten it all and walks around like it has been sitting on his shoulders since the day it has happened. Erik wants to help but the boy, still always a boy, will grin, freckles brilliant beneath the sun, and tells him that it'll get better, _Mags_.

He doesn't chase him out, just humours the young man until he has had his fix. There is a new formed confidence in the way Sean is the one to reassure him.

And when he turns to go with a smile and a wave, Erik doesn't wonder what else he has going good for him.

000

"I'm proud, really really proud of you."

He smells like adrenaline and Erik likes that scent on him. It feels like he's been through a lot but none of it is shredded bloody paper and cold hard revenge. Instead, it feels more like well-intended growth and years that has passed by well.

"I don't know why you come at all."

Erik is nursing his second glass of scotch, still with the same old three ice cubes sitting down at the bottom, watering down the alcohol, bringing him back from tossing everything into the winds.

"I come here to see the good you're doing, Erik."

They don't play chess. Because then, it'll remind them too much of their past. And they can't have that, even when they both want to kiss the other like it's their first time.

"Does it make you want to come back… at all?"

"Sometimes, and sometimes it gives me more vigour to do what I do, just to know I can protect you."

"I don't need your protection. But, it should've been you, here." Erik gestures at the room, the office he has taken as his own. Thick velvet curtains, over spilling bookcases, none of it belongs to him.

Charles pours him a third one, liquid gold in the dimming lights. "I'm glad it isn't, Erik."

It goes without saying that he'll be in his place instead because there is not a world in which they can be together. They've accepted that, a long time ago. So when he kisses him, there is no reserve, just a wistful smile as he sucks at the alcohol lingering on his tongue.

They've learned, they serve balance better this way.

 

"I still miss you, you know."

"…Don't say that, Erik, not when you don't mean it that way."

"How'd you know? I have the helmet on."

"That's exactly why. You don't really miss me, not when you can't even take off that damned thing for me."

They both choke when it comes to coming clean but there is only so much they owe the other.

"…I'm sorry, Charles."

"Don't be, Erik. It's… really quite alright."

He doesn't take the helmet off and he, he doesn't reach for it.

000

Angel Salvadore stays with the X-Men for a long time before retiring. Maybe it is the guilt that keeps her there, or maybe, she genuinely believes in their cause. She thanks Charles for everything and no one tries to convince her to stay.

She is still the petite young woman with the same full blown figure as the little girl the two of them found in that club, she is still pretty with her black hair and dark eyes, still perfect with magnificence when she spreads her wings and takes off to the sky.

Charles watches her go, eyes sad, lips still pulled into a convincing smile regardless of all the good things that will come to end.

000

But those are the good days when they can stand to look at each other.

Other days, they are inches from throwing the other man out the nearest window. And even their exchange is cold with hate and _howcouldyou_.

"You know how I feel when I see the things you do?"

Erik doesn't splay the newspapers across the tables, even when he can. He doesn't make him look at the black and white photos of bloody riots that remind him of the war he has been forced to live through. Charles doesn't look away, he doesn't flinch in the face of his rage. He has seen it enough times, he remembers the starving children, the dying men and women, he has had it all directed at him.

And Charles knows exactly how much Erik wants to kill him just to end their years long struggle. He doesn't need to read his mind to know how many times that thought has crossed Erik's mind.

He doesn't give him the satisfaction even when he really doesn't know which is the worst. Charles makes his guesses and takes apart his assumptions.

"Disappointment. Sadness. Pity."

They both swallow hard.

"Anger. And pain, Charles." Erik clenches his fists at his sides, allows the metal in the room to thrum with his underlying frustration as he corrects the other man. "I hate that I couldn't change your mind."

"Then we really are just the same."

Charles tries not to grief.

000

Azazel hates calling Russia home but he is now buried there, beneath an unmarked grave.

He is fatally wounded in a mission that goes horribly terribly wrong with Mystique at his side, and bleeds out in the snow, right outside his hometown where the snow never really stops falling. Mystique doesn't cry, but their 6 months old child does, he cries every night.

She holds his hands tight to her chest until he finally closes his eyes, fingertips going cold in the brewing storm.

Raven never finds out what his last name has been, or if he has even known it in the first place. She never returns to Russia after that.

000

In the past, they go their separate ways on a beach with enough regret and longing to keep them going for years to come. In the present they meet somewhere in the middle where battle lines are drawn into beaten walls. And now that they are in the future, a better part of a new century they have come to survive, they really don't know.

"How long does this have to go on?"

He doesn't mean them, the two of them together like this, not when he asks. But still, it comes out that way.

"We are never too old for this."

"The arguing yes, we can be on our deathbeds and I probably still won't shut up." Charles hides his sheepish grin but Erik, he doesn't need to look to know.

"And the fighting?"

Leaning back, Charles lets his eyes shudder shut, lips curling easy into a soft smile that settles with quiet serenity. "I thought ten years tops, we would've had the war behind us."

"Who wins?"

"You? Me? It doesn't matter," he cracks open an eye, "just as long as it's not them, you know, Erik."

He doesn't let himself nod, doesn't play the game by his rules. Instead, Erik counters with nothing less than genuine curiosity, like he really wants to know. "And then where would we be?"

"Exactly like this."

Charles replies.

And it is daunting, their alternate universe.

000

Riptide leaves shortly after Azazel's death. And it isn't because he no longer believes in lying down his life for this cause, there is something chilling to seeing an old friend die this way. It strikes something too close, makes you think about everything you've got going for you.

Charles understands, because one day you make a choice, and that choice stays with you for the rest of your life.

Riptides goes and no one tries to make him stay.

000

While neither of them dies or ever falls in love again, the betrayal is still too much on days the sky matches the same shade as that day back in '62. Erik imagines he still has sentiments and Charles pretends this all means nothing.

He has his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.

"Charles, I can't do this anymore."

And it doesn't matter where they are, his eyes look old and sad, worn down through time, but death is not due for another decade to come. Charles smiles, and it reminds Erik of the ocean where no one dies and some one is saved.

"You mean, defending our cause like we've done all our lives?"

"I mean, tearing at each other's throat like this."

He looks up, pain breaking into his voice as the misery seeps from the defeated slump in his shoulders.

They don't lift the corner of their shirts to expose the scars because each and every one of them is capable of rendering them useless, especially the recent ones where they are ruthless and driven by a torn between hate and whycan'tyoujust _see_.

The ones they each cut into the other, dull edged blades, rusty with blood, meant for the chest.

"Come here already." He pulls at Erik's arms, pulls him from his misery like he has done for years. And while Charles holds him to his chest Erik knows he is a sweetheart the same way he is a menace.

Charles has a method and it applies to everything from tearing apart the government to breaking apart a blueberry muffin for a snack. Charles folds him into his arms and it feels something like home, even if it is splitting at the seams from the years of push and pull.

"I miss you."

He breathes into the crown of his head, lips brushing at his temple, like this is all his.

"Me too."

 

But how many more years will it be before they can give up on their cause for a selfish need? They still don't know.

000

Mystique is a fighter through and through. They are near two decades away from their past and she doesn't look any different. Perhaps, her curves are more defined, her eyes gold and sharper still.

Charles smiles in the face of her transformation, watches as she crosses her legs from her throne at his side.

"You might think you need it, Charles," he glances up to see her with Nightcrawler in her lap, her fingers curling protectively around her child, the boy's tail wrapping around her wrist with reflex, "but you hardly even want it."

Fundamentally, she hasn't changed all that much.

And she isn't about to, thirty more years into the future when he is lying cold in a coffin somewhere far from the ruins of Oxford they still keep around them.

000

They aren't well-meaning men, not one bit.

Not since Charles slams his palms up against the windows of the blackbird, his screams of agonized pain silent as he dies for the first time in his life. "Don't do this, Erik, damnit!"

But Erik still kills Shaw, the humans still fire upon them. And Charles, he finally lowers his defenses to accept the world for what it is.

The sentiments are the same.

And he has only ever wanted to tell him that there is no other way, you see.

I'm sorry for all that I did and all that I will do.

 

Charles is standing at the window of the office, _the_ office because Erik can't call it his (this house in itself is never his) but neither is it Charles', not after he has willingly given it away, not after the choices he has made since then.

"I'm glad," he runs a hand along the base of the window frame, remembers a fragmented childhood he no longer cares for, "the X-Men would've never made anything out of this place. We're good at—"

"Hurting and destroying the country."

Erik supplies from the chair by the fireplace, burning steady. Chessboard spread bare and defenceless for a game they never want to end. Charles turns around and looks at him with a soft shake of his head even when he can full well pull away, like he's been burnt.

"Making a point across to the public, I meant."

"So leave the Brotherhood with the damage control?" He pushes over a pawn with a grimace, Charles takes a seat across from him. "There are so many other people out there."

They both hear the silent: _it doesn't have to be_ _us_ , out there fighting each other like animals.

But once again, Charles shakes his head like he is correcting a child. "This is our mutant cause, not anyone else's."

He lays a hand over his, stops him from pushing over another pawn, another black piece like he is purposely trying to lose a game they haven't even start. Charles laces their fingers together, thumb rubbing over the old scars on the back of his hand.

"The right and the wrong is tying you back, Erik." Charles smiles lightly at him, replacing the fallen piece with another. "You should know better than all of us, good and bad means nothing in all this."

"And somehow, you still end up being the wrong and bad." Erik retorts, annoyed and amused like this is all a horribly crude joke they are all trying to recover from.

"That's a perspective, Erik." Charles replies, "besides I rather it be me than you."

_Oh, how unfair of you to say something like that._

Erik runs his free hand down his face in exasperation; eyes already memorized the details of Charles' smirk. They don't pull their hands back, they don't let go, not even when Charles makes the first move.

"Pawn to C4."

"An English Opening, Charles?"

While Charles' eyes seem to sparkle, Erik finally gives him what he wants, he smiles back at him in return. Something slow and sure, something wholehearted and flitting, and he doesn't understand why they always end up this way, but he isn't sure he wants it any other way.

XXX Kuro


End file.
